AURORA AND ANNE
When Judge Henderson passed down the office stair, and out across the
street toward the narrow little brick walk of the courthouse--which even
on that day of the week now held a certain crowd--so disturbed, so
preoccupied, was he that he gave no greeting to one or two belated
loiterers about the store fronts.
"I reckon that young feller'll get his dose now," said old Aaron
Craybill, demi-chorus to this tragedy, following with his bleared eyes
the tall and well-groomed figure, frock-coated, top-hatted, which now
was passing toward the temple of justice. "I wouldn't like to have no
man like the Jedge after me if I'd done what that boy done. He's a-going
to get _hung_, that's what's going to happen to him. Everybody knows
Slattery ain't big enough for this case. With a 'Nited States Senator
a-prosecutin' it, though, and ten reporters from the cities--well, I
guess Spring Valley'll be heard from some!"
"I wonder when the funer'l's goin' to be," said his neighbor, Silas
Kneebone. "Of course Rawlins is goin' to preach the sermon. He's good on
funer'ls. Seems like he's e'en--a'most as comfortin' at a funer'l as
ary minister you could get in this town--and there's quite some
ministers here, too."
They hurried on away now presently even as Judge Henderson disappeared
in the courthouse door. A strain of music had come to their ears, the
sound of reeds and brasses.
"Thar's the band now!" exclaimed Aaron Craybill. "Knight Templar, too!
They're goin' over to the hall to practice for the funer'l. Come on
ahead! Hurry, Silas!"
Down the street, audible also through the open windows of Judge
Henderson's office, came the music. Jerome Westbrook had hastened from
his duties on the coroner's jury only to assume his labors as leader of
the Spring Valley Silver Cornet Band; and as it was the duty of that
band to head the procession of the Knights Templar in the funeral march
of Joel Tarbush, himself a brother of the order, it seemed that a
certain rehearsal in the infrequent effort of playing under march was
needful on this Sabbath day.
Slow-paced, with swords reversed and even step, with eyes looking
neither to the right nor to the left, following the music of the wailing
horns, the muffled tapping of the drums, it came now into the civic
center of the town, this solemn procession. At its head walked Saunders,
master in the order, his opportunity now at hand; and behind him, in
full regalia, came many others, all the leading citizens of this
community, the pillars of the church, the props of the business
structure of this village, the leaders and formers of its customs and
its social order; all these anxious that the appearance of the secret
order in public should be in all ways above reproach, even at cost of
this quasi-public rehearsal. Joel Tarbush dead was receiving more
tribute than ever had Joel Tarbush living.
In accordance with ritual or custom, after the actual march to the tomb,
the musicians must render that selection which has spoken for so many
hearts bowed down in weight of woe; but Jerome Westbrook knew that his
men needed practice on Pleyel's Hymn; so they gave it now tentatively,
in advance, as they passed through the public square on the way to the
hall. To the strained senses of Aurora Lane, still sitting with Anne in
the office where they had lingered, the wailing of the music seemed a
thing unbearable. She caught her hands to her ears.
"Oh, God!" she whispered. "Oh, God! If only they would not."
The white, sad-faced young woman at her side took her trembling hand in
her own. "It will pass," said she. "Everything passes. You have been
brave all these years. I ought to be brave too! even now--after what
you've told me."
"And I never knew you," said Aurora Lane after a time. "Not many women
have ever said much to me."
"Nor did I know you," rejoined Anne Oglesby. "You were a stranger to me
when I saw you now, right here--Don's mother! We were so excited, Don
and I, that I never identified you two, although--yes--I knew--something
about--about----What shall I call you--you see, maybe I'll be your
daughter yet."
"Some call me--Mrs. Lane. Some--Miss Lane. You can't call me 'mother.'
For most part I am the village milliner, my dear--nothing more than
that. I'm nobody. But generally, I'm 'Aurora Lane.' ... Now you know it
all. I'm so sorry for you, my dear girl. You're fine--you're splendid.
You're a good girl; and you're so very beautiful. If only you belonged
with--with him--with me. It's too bad for you."
Anne Oglesby, the more composed of the two, impulsively stroked back the
thick ruff of auburn hair from Aurora's face. "You mustn't bother about
me," she said.
"But I must bother about you! You must give him up. My dear, my dear, it
can't be! I'm just learning now how hard that would be for him because
it's so hard for me."
"He kissed me," said Anne Oglesby simply. "After that it was too late."
"Why, what do you mean, my dear?"
"He didn't have to do anything more after that," said Anne Oglesby
slowly. "He had not had time to say anything before that."
"He should not have kissed you," said Aurora Lane. "But that was his
farewell to you."
"It was not farewell!" said Anne Oglesby. "It was our beginning! I will
_not_ give him up. If he had not kissed me--just when he did--just as he
did--I would not have known! I'm glad!"
Aurora Lane looked at her searchingly, slowly.
"Poor girl!" said she. "Dear girl! He could not help loving you--I
cannot help it myself. You are the only woman in the world, I think, for
him."
"I am not good enough," said Anne Oglesby stoutly. But then suddenly she
cast both her strong young arms about the neck of Aurora Lane and
dropped her head upon Aurora's shoulder.
"Oh, yes I am!" she said; "oh, yes I _am_! I know I must have been meant
for him, or else--else--"
But she did not as yet reveal the secret of the Sphinx. They both fell
silent.
"Ah, sacrifice!" said Aurora, wearily, after a time. "Sacrifice always
for the woman. We are all so bent on that."
"There's much more than that," said Anne Oglesby, sagely. "Besides,
sacrifice itself is not an odious thing. You sacrificed much of your
life, your happiness, your freedom. Are you sorry for that now, or
proud?"
"Dear girl!" murmured Aurora Lane, patting her on the shoulder. "Ah, you
sweet girl! If you could only just remain always this young and
wise--and ignorant!"
But Anne Oglesby seemed not to hear her. She was looking out of the
window musingly now, her yellow-gloved hands supported on her
tight-rolled umbrella, her hat making a half-shadow for her dark hair
and her clear, definite features.
Now the red sun ball, having well completed its circuit over the parched
and breathless town, was sinking to yet another lurid sunset. There lay
over all a blanket of that humid heat which so often arrests activity in
communities such as this, situated in the interior, where few cooling
breezes come. The dry, dust-covered leaves of the maples hung unmoved.
Here and there, still hitched to the iron piping which served as a rail
on all sides of the courthouse fence, stood the teams of farmers still
tarrying, unwilling to face the hot ride home from town, even though the
duty of church attendance was long since past. A murder and a funeral--a
Knights Templar funeral--Spring Valley had never known the like! And
there was going to be a trial--a murder trial. Court would sit tomorrow.
What village could ask more than was the portion of Spring Valley in
these few hurrying days? And it was her boy, 'Rory Lane's; and she'd
fooled everybody--but now----! Spring Valley licked its chops as it said
"But now----"
The two women in Judge Henderson's office sat still in the sultry heat,
looking out of the window over the sultry, sordid, solemn little town;
how long they did not know; until now there came again across the
heat-hazy spaces of the maples, over the hot tops of the two-storied
brick buildings, the sound of the wailing music--the same music which
may come from the noblest organs of the world, the same music which may
have pealed on fields of battle after heroes have fallen, speaking, as
music may, of a soul passed, of a life ended, so soon to be forgot. For
a time let the wailing of the horns, the tapping even of these unskilled
drums, record the duty of this man's fellows to give him at least a
moment's full remembrance.
In this hot lifeless air of the somber Sabbath afternoon the burden of
sorrow, the weight of solemnity, seemed yet heavier and more oppressive.
If a soldier dies the music plays some lilting air which speaks
forgetfulness on the march home; but now, for the second time came this
reiterated mournful wailing for a passing soul. The band had learned its
lesson by now. The dirge for the dead arose in a volume well regulated
and sustained as the men marched from the hall at last for the final
trial on the street.
To the tapping rhythm of the anthem of the dead, sometimes such a
community as this does take thought--these uniforms are justified, these
white plumes, these reversed swords are justified; for an humble man who
has passed is dignified before his fellow men; and he has had his
tribute. Sometimes at least men thus stand shoulder to shoulder, heads
bared, and forget envy, backbiting, little jealousies, forget cynicism
and ridicule. The diapason of the drums surely had its hearing. It sank
deep to the soul of Aurora Lane, striking some chord long left
unresponsive.
"Anne!" said she, her hand lying in that of the wet-eyed girl at her
side, "it's over--for him."
The girl nodded. But after all, Anne was young. She raised her head in
the arrogance of youth, even as there passed more and more remotely the
mournful cadence of the drums.
"But he was old!" she said, defensively. All of youth and hope was in
her protest.
Aurora turned upon her her own large eyes, dark-ringed today. Her mouth,
long drawn down in resolution, was wondrous sweet now as it trembled a
little in its once ripe red fulness. It became the mouth of a young
woman--not made for sorrow. "You still can hope, then?" she smiled. And
Anne nodded, bravely. So, seeing replica of her own soul, Aurora Lane
could do no more nor less than to fold her in her own arms, the two
understanding perfectly a thousand unsaid things.
"But come!" said Anne Oglesby at last. "We must make plans. There's a
lot to be done yet, and we must start."
"I have no money," said Aurora Lane. "I don't know what to do."
"Money isn't everything," said Anne Oglesby, with the assurance of those
who have all the money that they need. "I suppose I have plenty of money
if my guardian will let me have it."
"Even if your guardian allowed it," said Aurora Lane proudly, "Don would
not. He would not let you help him, nor would I, though we are
paupers--worse than that. Did you know that, Anne?"
"I am finding out these things one by one," was the girl's reply. "But
they have come after my decision." She spoke with her own quaint
primness and certainty of her mind.
"There's just one man could help us," said Aurora Lane, hesitating, and
coloring a trifle. "I mean Mr. Brooks, Horace Brooks. He's a good
lawyer. Some say he is the equal of Judge Henderson--I don't know. You
heard what Judge Henderson said of him. It's fear of Horace Brooks, as
much as his own conscience, that's influencing Judge Henderson."
"And why couldn't we go to Horace Brooks then?" demanded Anne Oglesby.
"What is the objection--why can't you go to him?"
"I'd rather not tell you," said Aurora Lane, and in spite of herself
felt the color rise yet more to her face.
Anne Oglesby sat looking at her for some time in silence. "There are
complications sometimes, are there not?" said she. So silence fell
between them.
The drums had passed by now. The sun had almost sunk to the edge of the
last row of dust-crowned maples. The farmers here and there below were
unhitching the sunburned horses at the courthouse rail.
"I see," said Anne at length. "You love him--or did--Don's father. Or do
you still pity him!"
"Who are you?" said Aurora Lane, looking at her steadfastly. "You, so
young! You talk of pity. Where have you learned so much--so soon? When
you grow older, perhaps you may find it hard _not_ to forgive.
Everything's so little after all, and it's all so soon over."
Unsmilingly Anne Oglesby held her peace. "Why don't you want to ask Mr.
Brooks to act as our attorney?" she asked. "And who is he--I don't know
him, you see."
Aurora did not answer the first part of her question. "I'll tell you
where Mr. Brooks' office is," said she--"you see that little stair just
across the courthouse yard? Sometimes he spends Sunday afternoon in his
office. It's--well--it's hard for me to go over there and ask him."
"Has he--has he--ever been much to you?" asked Anne Oglesby, directly.
"In a way, yes," said Aurora Lane, quite truthfully, but flushing red.
"Outside of my own son, he is the only man that's ever raised voice or
hand in my defense here in this town. Beyond that--don't ask me."
Anne Oglesby did not ask her beyond that. But when she spoke, there was
decision in her tones.
"It is no doubt your duty to go to Mr. Brooks at once. Will he too
refuse us?"
Aurora Lane's face remained flushed in spite of herself.
"I don't think he will refuse," said she. "But only Don's danger would
ever induce me to ask him for any help. I'll ask him--for Don and you."
Twilight fell, and they still sat silent. There came at last the
footfalls on the office stairs, and the two arose in the dim light to
face the door.
Judge Henderson entered slowly, hesitatingly. He half started as,
looking within the unlightened room, he saw standing silhouetted against
the window front the tall, trimly-clad figure of his ward, and at her
side, equally tall, the dim, vague outline of Aurora, clad in black. The
two stood hand in hand, and for the time made no speech.
"I must go," said Aurora Lane, at length.
Anne would have passed out with her, but her guardian raised a hand. "I
must ask you where you are going?" said he.
"Not with me," said Aurora, quickly. "No, no, you must not." And so,
quickly hurrying down the stair, she herself turned into the open
street.
"Anne," said Judge Henderson, "I am deeply distressed. This all is
terrible--it's an awful thing. Did you hear that funeral march? God! an
awful thing, right when I am in this terrible dilemma. I've just been on
the long distance 'phone trying to get Slattery--I can't find either him
or Reeves; and I've got to act before court actually opens."
"What do you mean by a dilemma?" she asked coldly. "Does any dilemma
last long with you, Uncle, when there is any question of your own
self-interest?"
His face flushed under the cool insolence of her tone. "It's a fine
courtesy you have learned in your schooling!"
"Have you heard all her history now?" he asked after an icy pause.
"Not all of it, no. Enough to admire her, yes. Enough to understand how
this town feels toward her, yes. Why don't you all burn her as a witch
in the public square?"
"You have a bitter tongue, Anne," said he. "You are not like your
sainted mother."
"A while ago you said I was! But my sainted mother, whom I never knew,
never found herself in a situation such as this," rejoined Anne Oglesby.
"At least, while my father lived, she had a man to fend for her. I have
none. We are women only in this case."
"So it was your plan to marry a nameless man? You've sworn he always
shall be nameless." The man's face showed a curious mixture of eagerness
and anxiety. He wished to argue, to expound, but dared not face this
young girl with the icy smile.
"Yes, I've sworn silence. It is a great and grave responsibility," said
she. "I'm sadder for that, that's true. But there are many things in the
world besides just being happy, don't you think? You see, I've no
dilemma at all!"
Judge Henderson passed a hand over his forehead. He had fought hard
cases at the bar, but never had he fought a case like this.
"Anne," said he presently, "I'm very weary. I've had a hard day. I want
you to go on up to the house now--the servants will make you comfortable
until I come. Just now I was afraid you were going on over with Aurora
Lane to her house."
"Not yet, Uncle," said she. "Perhaps at some later time, if you cast me
out."
He only groaned at this thrust.
She passed, a cool picture of youth, self-possessed and calm. He heard
her foot tapping fainter as it descended the stair, listened to hear if
she might come back again. But Anne went on down the street steadily,
looking straight ahead of her. Already, it seemed to her, she had grown
old. To those who saw her she seemed a beautiful young woman.
"That's Don Lane's girl," said one ancient to another, back of his hand.
"Lives over at Columbus. He kissed her right there on the depot
platform, this very morning. Huh!"
"I don't blame him," rejoined the other, with a coarse laugh. "But he
ain't apt to get many more chances now. I wonder how he fooled her about
himself--and her the judge's ward, or something."
"Nerve?" said his friend. "He's got nerve enough to a-done anything. But
I guess they got him dead to rights this time."
"Yeh. The _town's_ got him dead to rights. No matter what the law----"
he stopped, his head up, as though sniffing at something in the air.
"Gawd!" said he. "Wasn't that music a awful thing! I can feel it in my
bones right now. It makes me feel----"
"It makes a feller feel like doing something more'n being just sad! It
makes a feller feel like--well----"
"Like _startin'_ something!"
The other nodded, grimly, his mouth caved in at the corners, tight shut
now.